


Of Cat Food, Caring and a New Castle

by morph



Category: Original Work
Genre: Racism, Refugees, based on my general knowledge of racism and my mother's experiences growing up, by original characters i actually mean my mum and her family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 11:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12681030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morph/pseuds/morph
Summary: The boat rocked violently over the water.(Or the one that I wrote for my Year 10 exam)





	Of Cat Food, Caring and a New Castle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mum](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mum).



> PLEASE NOTE: this is kinda rushed because, well, I only had a few procrastination-filled weeks to write it. i also had a page limit and had to memorise it. i may revise it later on in life, but please be aware that this is that kinda not-so-good version of it. 
> 
> The assignment was to write a three page short story on the theme of "Connections".
> 
> Also, this is about my mum, her mum and her family. 
> 
> Set in the late 70s/early 80s in Australia.
> 
> Update: I got my results back for this and I got 20/20 marks??? holy shit

The boat rocked violently over the water.  


Rain pounded on the deck, and the sea bashed itself against the wood of the boat. All around us was water, attacking in an effort to leave us stranded in an unforgiving ocean.  


I clung to my sisters and prayed for a miracle, while Mẹ, my dear mother, held onto us all. We had been on this boat for hours, hoping to reach a safe land.  


An eternity passed. The water tired of toying with us.  


And just when I thought that we were going to be stuck on this tiny fishing boat forever, I heard men shouting.  


Mẹ stood up as a man climbed down the ladder. I followed suit.  


“What happened?” she asked.  


“There-there is a vessel!” the man gasped out.  


“Let’s go,” Mẹ told us.  


On the surface of the boat, the darkness was pierced by a bright, artificial light that shone down upon us like the moon. A rope ladder was hurled off the ship and landed with a “TWHACK!”  


The fisherman of this boat told Mẹ “Go!” so she took a deep breath, clutched the baby close and sent me up. Little Cora clung to my back and I clambered up the rope, hands and feet working in tandem and lungs full of salty air.  


We were greeted by a balding man with wisps of gold hair and watery eyes. He gave Mẹ a piece of paper with words in a foreign language and two boxes.  


He said something that I didn’t understand and moved his hand in a ‘ticking’ motion, like I’d seen my teachers do.  


She ticked the second option, and the man with gold hair pointed us over to a group of people from my home country.  


“Where are we going?” Mẹ asked an apron-clad man who I recognised as the local baker.  


“Châu Úc.” _Australia_.  


Being on that boat was like being an ant trapped in sweet honey. Time travelled slowly, noted only by the waves and the sun. I hummed lullabies to my sisters and brushed salt off my face.  


And as we finally walked off the boat with unsteady legs, holding hands in a desperate flail for familiarity, all I knew was that I was scared. We were alone together in a strange new world.  


A tall man brushed past me and I hit the ground, palms stinging. My ears rang with his foreign shouts. I felt Mẹ gently pull me up. My younger sisters peered at me with wide, terrified eyes.  


“Do not worry about him, cháu ơi,” Mẹ told me.  


I bobbed my head but stared as he entertained various people with gold, red and brown hair. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry; why had he pushed me over?  


Similar incidences occurred often. I felt an old man’s glare on my back as I crossed the street. Children my age rushed past and screeched at me. Teenagers sneered. A boy barely older than me snickered when, in fumbling English, I told a nun I feared the ocean.  


“Stupid girl. Dirty queue-jumper.”  


I hated it.  


As I grew up, I noticed it even more. Mẹ had trouble finding work because to do so, you had to speak English. My siblings and I grew up with that strange language, but Mẹ found it more difficult. When we went to the supermarket, everything was in English. A pale woman smirked and pointed when we bought a can that was labelled with a fish, not warning us of what it was.  


“Open the windows!” Mẹ cried, frantically waving a cloth at the pot filled to the brim with stinking cat food.  


Little things like that made my blood boil and my heart pound. So, I did what refugees do best, what Mẹ did every day to keep us alive: I worked hard and got the job done. I cooked and cleaned and cared for my siblings. I learned, studied, and sewed. I took two jobs and still found time to make friends. I had to do everything to prove people wrong.  


“I’m not stupid,” I reminded myself daily. “I belong here.”  


One afternoon, my best friend asked, “What did you get on the science test?”  


I beamed at her. “I got an A.”  


It wasn’t a revolutionary occurrence, but it was a start. I wasn’t stupid. I was proud of my family and nobody could take that away from me.  


“I am a refugee,” I told my daughter’s class.


End file.
